


the ship of theseus

by oryx



Category: Vagrant Story
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nowadays, when you dream, you dream of others’ lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the ship of theseus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laughingpineapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingpineapple/gifts).



> hope you don't mind 2nd person... i know some people aren't fond of it but it just worked best for this fic ;;  
> & i hope you have a wonderful yuletide! :)

Nowadays, when you dream, you dream of others’ lives.

 

You close your eyes and you are young, just a boy, running through the crowded, twisting city streets. When you stop and turn your brother is right there behind you, and he is laughing, chanting “I caught you, I caught you” again and again like a mantra. People say he is a somber child, your brother. Severe and strange and difficult to understand. But you know differently. When he is with you he changes – unfurls like the petals of a blooming flower. When he is with you he smiles without a care.

 

He may be startlingly righteous for a boy his age, but you would never call him somber.

 

You tumble out on to the main streets and there is a procession coming through – the Order’s finest returning from a mission outside the city walls. Your brother tugs on your sleeve, and you wrap your arms around him, lift him up so that he may see over the crowd. The Crimson Blades are steely-eyed and triumphant. They stand tall with the strength of virtue. They march in lockstep, and the discipline of it all instills in you a sense of peace, the sound of their feet against the cobblestones strangely soothing to your ears. The sun peeks out from behind a cloud and you think it must be the light of God.

 

“I will join the Order someday,” your brother announces later, as you return home hand in hand, and you look over to see a fire lit in his eyes. His small fingers squeeze tight around your own. His words are not just a child’s whim. That much you know for certain.

 

“So will I,” you say, more out of duty than passion. He feels so deeply, your brother. He thinks too much about the things he will never know. Despite his youth he is often ensnared by grandiose ideas, trapped inside dreams and lofty ambitions. He will need someone to watch over him, in the future, to make sure he is not blinded by his own heart.

 

He nods, unsurprised, like he knew all along you would follow him. “Mother says the Order is close to God. She says He speaks to them when they pray. Do you think that is true, Duane? When I join their ranks, will I get to speak with Him, too?”

 

You ponder this. To you, the thought of speaking to God is a strange one. Frightening, even. It is His distant omniscience that most reassures you, and the idea of hearing His voice so close, so intimate, speaking words meant only for you… It sends a shiver of both awe and panic down your spine.

 

“Of course,” you say, pushing aside your contrary thoughts, and reach over to ruffle his hair. “For you, brother, nothing is impossible.”

 

.

 

.

 

It is dark when you wake. The stars are out, and your campfire has dwindled to embers, the crisp chill of early spring air prickling at your skin. You push yourself up into a sitting position; reach out with your mind to make sure there is no danger lurking close. There is none. Only an owl perched in a tree nearby, and a fox darting back into its den, and several other small creatures foraging through the underbrush. Still dazed from sleep, you allow It to take a hold of you for a moment. You slip into its rhythms and focus too intently, and for a split second you can feel the beating of the animals’ hearts, the pulse of blood and the creak of bone and sinew beneath their flesh. You flinch and draw back to the sound of quiet laughter in your ears.

 

You set about gathering your meager belongings. Lately you have taken to travelling by night, finding the light of the sun to be strangely discomfiting. (When it is bright enough, when it hits you at just the right angle, you can sometimes see shadows flickering in patterns across your skin.) You tamp out the last remaining sparks of the fire and sling your pack over your shoulder, beginning the trek once more with haste, eager to leave these sparse, eerie pine barrens behind before sunrise.

 

 _Pleasant dreams, I hope?_ whispers a voice in the back of your mind.

 

 _… Better than some,_ you think in reply. _Though bearing witness to even the fondest memories of the dead leaves a sour taste in my mouth._

 

That soft laughter can be heard once more, seeming to press in from all directions.

 

_Come now, Mister Riot. ‘Dead’ is such a **definite** term, don’t you think?_

 

.

 

.

 

You close your eyes and you are in a library, in a window seat with your son in your lap, reading to him from a children’s book of ancient myths and legends. Outside it is still snowing, settling in great drifts in the courtyard below, and the sky is that wintery shade of light, dusky purple. Frost has laced itself like a spider’s web across the window panes.

 

“The Brave Princess raised her sword high,” you read. “She struck at the crystal, but her power alone was not enough. And so the Pirate Who Could Not Forget stepped forth to assist her. He took up the sword in her stead. He told the others to – ” You pause, then, and press your fingertip to the page. “Do you know how to say that word?”

 

You glance down and can see your son’s brow furrowing.

 

“Fl… ‘flee’?”

 

“Yes, good. Do you know its meaning?”

 

“To… to get away?” His voice is meek and cautious, as if he were afraid of being wrong, and you bite back a chuckle.

 

“That is correct. You are wonderful at this, Sydney. Such an intelligent boy.”

 

Later, you visit his room to bid him good night as the nursemaid fusses around him, tucking in his blankets just so. There seems to be something weighing heavily on his mind. You can tell by the way he fidgets beneath the covers, blinking up at you with those wide, owlish eyes. You ask him what is wrong with a coaxing smile, and he bites his lip nervously.

 

“…Father,” he whispers. “Who is Sydney?”

 

.

 

.

 

The road to Moormont is a quiet one, without the constant hustle and bustle that plagues most sizeable cities, but this only exacerbates your wariness. It is easy to disappear in the midst of a crowd. Here, with the low swamplands stretching out for miles and the flat grey sky above, you feel exposed, conspicuous, and after so many days of journeying you are too weary to weave a glamour to disguise yourself.

 

And it is just your luck that, at the very moment you draw close to the city, a patrol group of VKP agents marches through its gates. Your vision, improved tenfold since the incident, immediately focuses in on that familiar insignia, and you falter mid-step.

 

There is a wooden lean-to along the side of the road – a place for travelers to take shelter in case of sudden storms, as are common in these parts. You approach it with a casual quickness; slip through the open doorway and press yourself into a dark corner.

 

You watch the patrol through the slats in the shoddily-constructed wall. They seem to be on duty – they are alert and attentive, hands resting on sword hilts, eyes lingering on the faces of each passerby. As if they were searching for someone in particular.

 

You sink deeper into the shadows and allow them to swallow you whole.

 

This you have not yet grown accustomed to. You doubt you ever will. The feeling of the darkness enveloping you, sliding over your skin like a cold, silken sheet. That strange, nauseating taste on your tongue – burnt and oily yet somehow sweet. And the heaviness, too. That throbbing, overburdened ache that presses in around the edges of your mind. The weight of all the souls you carry seems amplified whenever you slip into the Dark, as if their voices were all shouting in unison.

 

Unable to stand much more, you shake off its hold and pull yourself back to reality.

 

The first thing you see is the fog. It is startlingly dense, lying in a thick blanket across the swamps and curling in around your ankles. The other travelers on the Moormont road – fewer, it seems, than you remember – are little more than shapeless shadows in the distance. You take a wary step forward and notice that the ground is wet. Not from hours of rain but from _days_ of it, the earth soft and pliable beneath your feet.

 

 _A strange beast, the Dark,_ says the voice in your head. _Loyal to its master, but so very volatile. Ask it to hide you away and it will go above and beyond to accomplish the task. I’d say it must have been at least a fortnight._

 

“…What?” you murmur. “That is… No. No, that cannot be right. I was only there for a moment.”

 

_Were you? I lost several months once, when I was young and still unused to its power. Time passes oddly wherever the Dark touches, Ashley. Lea Monde should have taught you that much. And once you step **within** it, well… Time all but grinds to a halt. What felt like a mere moment to you was in fact far longer._

 

“That is absurd,” you hear yourself say, but your voice lacks conviction.

 

‘Absurd’ is hardly an applicable word anymore.

 

.

 

.

 

You close your eyes and you are sitting in a chapel, the back of the wooden pew hard and unforgiving against your spine. Strange, that such a thing would bother you today of all days. Light streams in through the stained glass windows, illuminating the mural of Saint Iocus on the far wall, and you avert your eyes hastily from his reproachful gaze.

 

“I thought I might find you here,” a voice says, and you nearly jump from your seat. You did not even hear the door open, entrenched as you are within your own thoughts. You glance up to see him standing over you, smiling in that easy manner that calms your heart (and yet in the back of your mind there are still those subtle pinpricks of doubt).

 

“Were you so unsettled by my proposal, Samantha? Do you no longer wish to meet with me?”

 

“No,” you say, desperate and loud and far too quick. “No, I… I took no offense to your suggestion, sir. Far from it, in fact.” Heat creeps into your cheeks, and you duck your head to hide your face from view. “But… I am a Crimson Blade. I swore an oath to God when I took up my sword. It is sinful of me, to feel as I do towards you, much less to act on it. Is this a test, I wonder? Are you being tested as well? Or are you…”

 

You trail off, unwilling to finish the thought. He stands there in silence for a time, and then moves forward to kneel in front of you, taking your hands in his.

 

“Is the love between two people truly such a sin?” he asks softly, and you take a sharp breath.

 

“Love?” you echo. You have known for a long time now – perhaps since the beginning – that your own feelings ran so deep, but the extent of his affection was until now a mystery to you. He is a man who wears smiles like armor, who wields fanciful gestures like a razor-sharp blade, and often you have wondered if his devotion was genuine. Hearing him speak such a word as ‘love’ aloud sends a thrill down your spine. “You… truly wish to be with me, sir?”

 

He nods and holds your hands tighter and says:

 

“I would promise you forever, if only you asked it.”

 

.

 

.

 

You sense a familiar presence in this city. When you walk through its streets you can feel their footsteps, curving like a signature across the flagstones, and you follow it to the west side of town, a residential district lined with quaint houses of reddish brick.

 

“Pardon me,” you say to a woman out sweeping her front stoop. She glances up at you and smiles, setting her broom aside. “I’ve come to visit my daughter and grandson – she’s raising him all on her own, the brave girl, I can’t help but worry myself sick – but I’m afraid I must have misplaced the address. Would you happen to know…?”

 

You leave your words hanging like a suggestion, and sure enough the woman’s eyes brighten with recognition.

 

“Oh yes,” she says. “You must mean Miss Lydia and young Isaak. A very beautiful daughter you have there, ma’am. So intelligent and well-spoken, too. And such a quiet, well-behaved grandchild! I only wish my own son were half as obedient. They’re right down the way, in number forty-six. Oh, I’m sure they’ll be so pleased to see you! Don’t get many visitors, it seems. Not that I’m trying to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong, but as their neighbor I can’t help but wonder. You know how it is.” She nods to herself sagely.

 

You thank her and make your way down to number forty-six, stepping forward to knock on the door.

 

It swings open a minute later, and Merlose stares back at you.

 

You half-expected her to have reinvented herself along with her new alias, but she has not changed much since Lea Monde. Hair cropped a bit shorter. A few lines of tiredness around her eyes that were not there before. But otherwise, the same. She looks at you piercingly, a pensive frown twisting her lips as she takes in your appearance. Her gaze travels down to the ground, to the shadow at your feet, far too tall and broad for the old woman you are pretending to be. ( _A common beginner’s error,_ says the voice in your head. _We’ll have to work on that, won’t we?_ )

 

“…Riot?” Merlose says, and you nod, peeling back the layers of magick to reveal yourself. She does not smile upon seeing you, nor did you expect her to, but there is a kind of relief that flickers across her face, smoothing out the sharper edges.

 

“Please, come in,” she says, and you do.

 

“So,” you say, as you are led through the house. It is sparse, clean in a way that most lived-in homes are not, but there is a comfort to it all the same. “Lydia.”

 

“Hmm? Oh yes, my new name. Does it not suit me? It was a spur of the moment decision, so I’m still a little unsure about it…”

 

“No, it is very fitting. I just… It was my mother’s name, actually.”

 

She turns to look at you thoughtfully, and this time she does smile, if only a little.

 

In the kitchen Bardorba’s boy is sitting at the candlelit table, head bent over a book, and he glances up when the two of you enter. His eyes go wide and his face turns a bit pale when he looks at you.

 

“Joshua,” Merlose says softly. “Perhaps you should take your reading upstairs for the time being?”

 

They exchange a meaningful glance and he nods hurriedly, gathering his things and ducking his head as he scurries from the room.

 

“I take it he does not like to be reminded of Lea Monde?” you say, once his footsteps have faded away.

 

“…Nay,” she murmurs. “Not so much. It is not you he fears, of course. I doubt your face holds any meaning to him. But your… _aura_ , so to speak. It has become much the same as Losstarot’s.”

 

That you do not doubt. Lately you have been unsettled by your own reflection in the mirror, your eyes glinting with a dangerous sheen, the planes of your face shadowed strangely no matter which direction you turn. Merlose shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts; offers you a seat at the table and a cup of tea, both of which you take gladly.

 

“How are you?” you ask, cradling your tea between your hands. It is burning hot, you notice absently, and yet you feel no pain.

 

“Well enough, for someone living under a false name,” Merlose says. There is a hint of humor in her voice. “There is a small university here in Moormont, small enough that background checks for faculty are fairly minimal. I work in the library there. They have a rather accomplished criminology department, wouldn’t you know. I often give advice to students working on their theses. Funny, that my degrees would be put to better use here than they ever were in the VKP. And… I’m working on a paper of my own, actually. The true history of Mullenkamp. To be published under another pseudonym, of course.”

 

“I will look forward to reading it,” you say, smiling faintly.

 

“And you?” she asks. “How have you been faring? I assume you were not actually responsible for the Duke’s so-called ‘murder in cold blood’?”

 

You huff out a quiet laugh. “I am afraid not. That, at least, might make for a fascinating story. But I am surprised you would even bother to ask. Can you not merely See into my heart for the answer?”

 

Merlose glances up from her tea and levels you with a solemn stare.

 

“I could,” she says simply. And though you do not mean to listen in on her thoughts, you cannot help but overhear:

 

_But I would rather See into a thousand of the blackest, most wretched hearts before looking even once into yours._

 

.

 

.

 

You close your eyes and you are helpless.

 

Your nurse has gone off somewhere, perhaps to chat with the maids like she is so inclined to do, leaving your wheelchair stranded by the sitting room window. Through it you can see the sun sinking behind the distant mountains, turning the sky a rather ominous shade of red. Soon it will be dark, and you wish desperately that the nurse had turned the sitting room light on before leaving you. The darkness has been frightening you as of late. Sometimes, when you look too close in the dead of night, you could swear you see the shadows moving, writhing and distorting and folding in upon themselves.

 

The light is so close, too. If you could just move your wheelchair, perhaps you could reach it and pull the cord with your teeth. You rock back in your seat, but the wheels are stuck fast in the plush carpet. Now more than ever you find yourself wishing for the prosthetics Father promised.

 

“Money may not be an issue,” he’d said, “but there are so few prosthetic craftsmen in Valendia. And even fewer with the know-how to create them for a growing child. You must understand this, Sydney. I know it is difficult, but please try to be patient.”

 

You are patient. You _are_. But you are beginning to forget what it feels like to walk, to touch and hold things, to do the simplest tasks without the help of people who scorn you. You overheard the maids gossiping not long ago.

 

“Where I come from they leave useless children out on the mountainside,” one of them had said, a sneer in her voice. “If this little brat weren’t the son of a Duke he’d’ve been dead years past. Who wants a cripple for a child anyhow? Makes me sick just lookin’ at those godawful stumps of his.”

 

You rock back again, with more force this time, and can feel your wheelchair tip precariously. The world seems to tilt, then, and you fall with a painful thump, lying face down on the floor but unable to pick yourself up, unable to do much more than struggle pathetically and call out for help again and again –

 

The memory ends abruptly, like a door slamming shut, and you jolt back to wakefulness.

 

 _That,_ whispers the voice in your head, _is not for you to see._

 

You sigh, pushing through the fog of drowsiness to form a coherent reply. “You speak as if I were a purposeful voyeur. I take no sick pleasure in learning your weaknesses, you know. Nor do I have any desire to observe your most intimate moments. But I’m afraid that neither of us has much of a choice in the matter.”

 

The voice is silent, and you sigh once more.

 

“Good night, Sydney,” you say softly.

 

You close your eyes and drift off again, but this time you dream of nothing.

 

.

 

.

 

You wake in the morning to the sound of muffled voices – a woman’s and a child’s – and for a brief second you think that you are home. Any moment now you will hear those quiet footfalls on the staircase, feel that small hand tugging on yours, hear that voice saying “Papa, Papa it’s time to get up” all soft and singsong. Tia’s exasperated laughter will echo from the hall. “Your father is tired, Marco,” she’ll say. “He came home very late last night. Allow the poor man a few more hours of rest – ”

 

The last traces of sleep begin to leave you, then, eyes focusing on the unfamiliar ceiling, and you remember just where and when you are.

 

You sit up slowly, dragging a weary hand across your face. Your throat feels tight. You swallow hard, and half-expect to hear Sydney’s laughter, but from him you can only sense a kind of respectful distance. Even something akin to sympathy, buried deep down (but that may just be your imagination).

 

In the kitchen Joshua once again seems startled by your presence, and Merlose hastens to sling his school bag over his shoulder, buttoning his coat all the way to the chin despite the mild spring weather. She hugs him tight before he steps out the door and you look away, feeling a twinge in your chest.

 

“Ashley,” she says as you sit opposite each other, cradling your tea once more. She stirs hers absentmindedly. “Last night… Who is it you were speaking to?”

 

You hold her gaze for a long moment.

 

“Myself,” you say finally, and it is not by any means a lie.


End file.
